Brother of the groom
by EllisHendricks
Summary: Set several months after the close of series 4, Mycroft reflects on how his brother's fortunes have changed - and how he's not the only one. Wedding fic. Established Sherlolly. First time trying to get inside Mycroft's head, so would love some feedback!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: I got the idea for this story from the epilogue to another story of mine, 'What Mary Knew' – they are of the same universe, but no need to have read it to enjoy this (although obviously I would love it if you did!)**

 **Chapter One**

The first time he met Molly Hooper, you could barely call it a meeting. In fact, if you'd ask him about it even later that evening, he would perhaps have vaguely recalled a ghastly Christmas-themed jumper under a lab coat, but very little else. Sherlock had called her in advance of their arrival at the morgue, of course, and Mycroft had been fleetingly puzzled as to why anyone might be at his brother's beck and call in quite that way, but the thought hadn't been important enough to stay with him.

So when, some several weeks later, Sherlock had spoken her name, told him that she would be part of Operation Lazarus – that she could be trusted wholly and implicitly – Mycroft had had to ask. To be reminded of who she was. At what point had a pathologist from St Bartholomew's Hospital become his brother's close confidante? He wasn't going to ask and Sherlock certainly wasn't going to tell him. But he had to take Sherlock at his word, and Molly Hooper immediately became part of the plan – not just part of it, but absolutely vital to it. It was on that day that Mycroft saw the real Molly Hooper, her strength, her intelligence, her steadfastness – and her devotion to his then-undeserving little brother.

And now, in the eyes of the law, Molly Hooper was his sister-in-law.

Mycroft scanned the room until his eyes came to rest on the happy couple – so happy it should be sickening, but he can't quite bring himself to feel that way. Sherlock, he could see, had no interest in 'working the room' on his wedding day, only wishing to keep his new wife to himself until enough time had passed for Molly to agree that they could leave without causing offence.

It was only once Molly Hooper became involved in Sherlock's 'suicide' that he felt the need to find out more about her. Background checks showed up nothing remarkable, and Mycroft had been slightly surprised that Sherlock had attached himself to someone who apparently didn't have an angle – didn't want anything from him. Until he met Molly Hooper, he believed the idea of selflessness to be just that – an idea, a fictional, fairy-tale construct. Sherlock Holmes was a man who went out of the way to make himself unlovable, but somehow Molly Hooper found the capacity – and the desire - to love him regardless.

Mycroft had started to wonder about Sherlock's own feelings on the night of the jump. He had it all arranged, had everything in place for his brother's disappearance – but Sherlock had asked him for one night. Mycroft had been reluctant – not only had meticulous plans been made, but he feared what one more night of freedom might do to his brother, and his resolve. That night had been spent at Molly Hooper's house, surveillance watching every angle of the exterior of her home. Mycroft hadn't liked to speculate what went on that night – he didn't think Sherlock would be _that_ stupid, but he knew how emotions could get the better of his brother.

Whatever passed between them, at the point of his leaving Sherlock had been adamant that Mycroft ensure her safety and ensure that she was kept updated. He just wanted her to know he was alive, nothing more, and Mycroft dutifully relayed this repeated message to Molly throughout Sherlock's two-year absence. At first, she had demanded to know more, but eventually that stopped – perhaps it was easier not to know, particularly when the situation might last indefinitely. Likewise, Mycroft told Sherlock very little about Molly – she was alive, safe and well. Sherlock didn't ask for more, and Mycroft would have been reluctant to give it to him.

Of course, Mycroft learned of Dr Hooper's engagement (and initiated the necessary background checks), but knew it wouldn't be prudent to share this with Sherlock, particularly given his uncertainty about his little brother's feelings – he feared the news might cause him to do something rash; either to abandon his mission and return, or to flee further into the darkness, never to return.

Hovering at the periphery of his brother's wedding, Mycroft smiled wryly to himself when he remembered Sherlock's huge discomfort at his role in John Watson's own nuptials. It had been hard not to feel sorry for him, a man so far out of his so-called 'comfort zone' that he may as well have been visiting an alien planet. Not terribly interested in the whole affair, Mycroft had made the point that at least Dr Hooper would be there to keep him company – only to receive Sherlock's gruff response that she had a 'plus one' with her.

Of course, that 'plus one' wasn't on the scene for much longer, a fact that was relayed to Mycroft by one of his ops staff and not by Sherlock himself. With a small measure of shame, he recalled feeling relieved that this change in Dr Hooper's circumstances had not spurred his brother into action – after all, succumbing to sentiment would only end in misery, wouldn't it?

But succumbing to sentiment had been the making of Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft acknowledged that John Watson's friendship had probably saved his brother, helped him to function in society, and that their kinship grounded Sherlock and gave him strength. Mary Watson, too. But when Mycroft saw his brother after Mary Watson's death, his own tenet about the dangers of sentiment felt more relevant than ever – what good were human attachments if they could break you so easily?

Mycroft knew there was only one course of action that night, and that was to arrange to have his brother delivered to the door of Molly Hooper. He had watched through the blacked-out car windows as the door opened and she took Sherlock into her arms and her home. For a moment, Mycroft experienced a flash of fear that there was a possibility he was wrong about everything.

Sherrinford answered that question and then some. Until their showdown with Eurus, Mycroft hadn't come close to understanding the depth of his brother's feelings for Molly Hooper – and he thought perhaps Sherlock hadn't either. He heard himself tell Sherlock he understood how hard it had been for him to make that call to Molly, but why was it hard? Because he was lying to a woman who loved him? Because he was forcing a friend to do something she resolutely did not want to do? It was only when Sherlock set about destroying that coffin with his bare hands that Mycroft realised it was because his brother had been made to face up to and articulate feelings that he fought hard to keep buried – buried to protect both himself and the young woman in tears in her flat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

When it was all over and the dust and embers had started to settle, Mycroft realised he had a new fear – that Sherlock _wouldn't_ act on his feelings. But little brother hadn't let him down. Sherlock, of course, never did things by halves, and within weeks of returning from Sherrinford, his brother had conducted a courtship with Molly Hooper that would take most men months or even years. Declarations of mutual affection were followed by co-habitation, procreation and a successful marriage proposal – even Mycroft wasn't entirely sure in what order it had all happened. Making up for lost time, Sherlock called it; 'going at it like rabbits' was how John Watson indelicately put it.

The result of all this was that Molly Hooper-Holmes was now heavily pregnant. It was not a subject with which Mycroft was intimately equated, and he was happy for it to stay that way. Although he knew both Mummy and Alicia would scold him, pregnancy still made him slightly squeamish – he had no interest in thinking about little brother and his wife _in flagrante_ , any more than he would want Sherlock to think about him in a bedroom-based scenario.

And yes, that was no longer outside the realms of possibility. Mycroft strongly suspected that Sherrinford – and his sister – was to blame for his new status, too, for making him…vulnerable. Alicia had made contact as soon as she'd found out about the events at Sherrinford and Musgrave, apparently concerned for his welfare, and Mycroft had found himself…not displeased by her interest. Shortly after accompanying his parents to see Eurus, he used the card he had carefully stored in his wallet to call Lady Smallwood and accept her offer of a drink. He welcomed her companionship, her good sense. Within weeks, Alicia had suggested that they get married, and Mycroft couldn't see any reason to disagree – it suited both of them very well at this point in their lives.

Even compared to the occasion in which Mycroft now found himself, his own wedding had been a very small and practical affair, something they both desired. The small gathering at the Westminster Register Office had consisted of his parents, his brother and Molly Hooper, Alicia's two sons, and John Watson and his young daughter. More than enough people to be in a room with for longer than five minutes, fond though he was of all of them in his own way. The private dinner at Alain Ducasse was, he had to admit, a worthy payoff for having to spend an excessive amount of time with his family, and they had all managed to behave amicably (although he suspected that Sherlock was being kept in check by his fiancée).

At this moment, his wife (a designation that would still take some getting used to) was engaged in conversation with Mummy. Alicia was a saint with his mother, and the two women got on extremely well – although Mycroft rather suspected that he featured far too heavily as a topic of conversation (was it wrong to run audio surveillance on your own wife and mother?). Sherlock had childishly joked that Mycroft had exchanged one mother for another, but although Alicia was indeed close to twenty years his senior, that most definitely wasn't the dynamic of their relationship. For the love of god, one mother was enough.

They appreciated the same things in life, enjoyed the same diversions, were equal in their desire for each other's company and also in their need for personal space. Both had maintained their separate abodes (like him, Alicia had both a flat in the city and a larger property further out of town), but their lives, he supposed, were shared. His house, it seemed, had become the closest thing to a shared home – Mycroft had arranged for his decorator to make-over one of the bedrooms for Alicia, but there were nights, too, when she would initiate a shared arrangement.

Their fond regard for each other, their convenient and pleasing state of affairs, was, he knew, a far cry from the path down which his brother had readily plunged. Sherlock, at times, bore an embarrassing resemblance to an infatuated adolescent – perhaps not surprising, given that his brother essentially missed out on what would be termed 'normal' emotional development (Mycroft had, too, of course, but his was a conscious choice based on the facts). Sherlock and Molly seemed perfectly happy in the small, shabby 'love nest' that was 221B, neither of them remotely preoccupied with material things (except for the taste for fine tailoring that Sherlock shared with him).

Naturally, Wanda and Timothy Holmes were overcome with joy at the recent transformation of their sons' lives; Mummy wouldn't let him forget it. He knew, too, that these developments have gone some way to forging a path of forgiveness. Although on a practical, rational level, Mycroft still believed what he did all those years ago was right – acting in the best interests of his family and his country – he also knew that his parents had every right not to forgive him. He had lived with that possibility all of his adult life, never knowing whether the truth would somehow out. He had also been convinced that whatever dysfunctional relationship he had with his brother, it wouldn't survive the truth. But, in part thanks to Molly Hooper, it somehow had. Mycroft had always lived with an undercurrent of guilt at what Sherlock had become, and what he had possibly been deprived of – but now his brother had found the one woman who grounded him, who kept him honest and who loved him with the integrity and intensity he needed. He owed Molly Hooper-Holmes a debt of gratitude.

It was a standard family joke that Mycroft didn't 'do' feelings, and in most situations that was the reality. But he did care deeply for his new sister-in-law, a woman whom he had hugely underestimated all those years ago. Molly demonstrated that it was possible to be warm and open as well as smart, tough and practical – she dared to be those things that he and Sherlock had turned from in fear. She was fiercely protective of her now-husband, and Mycroft knew that she would be a wonderful mother.

Sherlock becoming a father – now there was a spectacle to relish. Not so long ago, little brother would have been horribly ill-equipped to handle such a status and responsibility. But there he was now, proudly holding Rosamund Watson on one hip and feeding her pieces of wedding cake. This new chapter in Sherlock's life was going to be fascinating to watch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Mycroft patted his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. Alicia hated him smoking, but she allowed him the freedom to make his own choices – in return, he had made an attempt to cut back (although that meant also cutting back on his culinary treats of choice). He could count on one hand the number of weddings he had attended in his life, all of them – his own aside – attended purely for strategic and diplomatic reasons. His brother's, true to form, ranked as the strangest.

Wanda Holmes might look now like the delighted mother of the groom, but there had been some colourful conversations a few months earlier, when Sherlock casually announced his engagement one Sunday afternoon at their parents' house. Mycroft still didn't know why they hadn't just eloped, which was clearly his brother's preference – he supposed that Molly must have talked him around, or perhaps he was doing it for her. Though he would want to have John Watson by his side, Mycroft understood, and perhaps it wasn't the done thing to elope with the Best Man and a one-year old infant in tow?

Mummy had, of course, grand dreams for a society-style wedding, to which she could invite every obscure member of the extended Holmes family, as well as a social diary's worth of family friends. Sherlock had, in response, threatened to un-invite them. Mycroft had offered to free up St Paul's Cathedral for the service, but this had been declined by Molly and Sherlock (the latter of whom accused him of show-boating). What Sherlock did request from him, however, was to arrange for a temporary marriage license for Bart's Pathology Museum, and it was there, in amongst the artefacts and medical curiosities that his brother exchanged his vows with Molly. Stranger still was the fact that the ceremony was conducted by one of the hospital's chief registrars, Dr Michael Stamford, who apparently held a license to officiate.

Their parents aside, the only guests for the ceremony were John and Rosamund Watson, Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade and his wife, a couple of friends of Molly's, and he and Alicia. The reception was a different matter, however. Sherlock had discovered that there was a grand old Board Room up in the rafters of Bart's Hospital, and this was the setting for the meal and general revelry that was now underway. To this, Sherlock had – with his fiancée's approval – invited around one hundred members of his homeless network. Mycroft had to admit this was a touch of genius. Mummy got her room full of people after all, and just had to swallow her obvious horror. That had possibly been easier once Sherlock explained to his parents the role his network had played in his 'suicide', and essentially making it possible for him to be there to wed Molly.

Daddy had, as he did with most things, taken it in his stride. There he was now, engaged in an animated conversation with a transient chap in an oversized duffel coat, while Mummy and Alicia stood talking nearby. Alicia caught Mycroft's eye but did not beckon him over – she could read him surprisingly well.

Elsewhere in his eye-line, Sherlock was now enthusiastically kissing his new wife, who was now minus her shoes. His hands grazed over the prominent bump between them, and they held each other's gaze. A moment later, he led Molly over to one of the comfortable armchairs at the side of the room, where his landlady was waiting, glass of champagne aloft. Immediately, Molly and Mrs Hudson fell into conversation. Sherlock was looking around for something, and when his gaze fixed on Mycroft, he realised that it was him.

 **Note: The thing about Mike Stamford came about because I read a while ago that actor David Nellist (who comes from my part of the world!) is – or was – a deputy superintendent registrar, licensed to conduct weddings. Thought maybe the ceremony would mean even more to Molly and Sherlock if Stamford was officiating!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Sherlock ambled over, and Mycroft noted the unlit cigarette his brother held surreptitiously down by his side. No words were exchanged between them as Mycroft followed Sherlock out onto the balcony.

"Technically, this is illegal," Sherlock said, as he pulled the door closed. The whole of east London now spread out in front of them.

"A little violation of anti-smoking legislation is but a drop in the ocean of your criminality, brother mine" he replied.

Sherlock snorted with laughter. He was slightly drunk, Mycroft could see, but his eyes were alive with what even Mycroft could see was happiness. There was a very clear lipstick mark on the side of his neck.

"I thought you'd quit," Sherlock accused.

"Cutting back," Mycroft replied.

" _I've_ quit," Sherlock said, rocking on his heels.

"So what's that?" Mycroft said, pointing at the cigarette in his brother's hand. "A wedding favour?"

"Call it an excuse."

"For what?"

"To talk to my big brother," Sherlock said, pocketing the cigarette.

Mycroft wasn't sure what to make of this, but he recognised that almost all of the relatively good-natured conversations that took place between them were based around their mutual dependence on tobacco.

"So how does it feel, little brother?" Mycroft asked, gazing out over the city. "You're a married man now."

"So are you," Sherlock countered. "Even Eurus couldn't see that one coming."

Mycroft allowed himself a sardonic laugh. Their sister, he knew, didn't have quite the same interest in him as she did in Sherlock – perhaps because there was never really a bond there to be broken, the age difference between eldest and youngest child too great.

"And yet here we are."

"Two old, married man," Sherlock smiled.

"You can't afford to be old yet," Mycroft replied. "You're about to usher the next generation of the Holmes line into the world."

"With any luck, the baby will be more like Molly," Sherlock said. "All I can really offer is good bone structure."

"And hair," Mycroft added, briefly touching a hair to his own head. "Despite all of your many shortcomings, dear brother, I'll concede that you got the hair."

Sherlock snorted again, stuffing his hands into his pockets. A few moments passed in silence as they both looked out towards the Stock Exchange, St Paul's and beyond to the river. Comfortable silence, which was noteworthy in itself.

"I'm bloody terrified," Sherlock laughed, finally breaking that silence. "I'm impatient and excited beyond reason, but I'm also completely bloody terrified."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at his brother's admission of fear. This was now getting dangerous close to the realms of talking about feelings, despite the flippant way his brother expressed those words. This would take some getting used to, and Mycroft feared that he may need something stronger than a low-tar cigarette; a Scotch from the bar would perhaps have helped (a cheap blend though it clearly was).

"I'm certain you are no different to any other prospective father," he offered. "Although that must be somewhat of a chore for you – 'different' being what you thrive on."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll manage to maintain some of my eccentricities and foibles, Mycroft," Sherlock replied. "But I have to accept that I am no longer the centre of my own universe. In fact, I am extremely grateful for that."

Mycroft had to concede that that struck a chord with him.

"I hope you're going to approach your role of Proud Uncle with vigour and aplomb?" Sherlock continued. He was outright teasing Mycroft now, but he refused to rise to the good-natured bait.

"You'll forgive me if I haven't given it a great deal of thought over the years," he replied, tapping his cigarette, which was to his dismay reaching the end of its useful life. "Things being what they've been. You being…well, you."

"In that case, we'll just expect you to be generous with the presents," Sherlock said.

"You're forgetting, Sherlock, that I now have my own parental responsibilities."

"Oh yes, how are the Smallwood boys? Must be a real challenge for you, what with them being past thirty and both living several thousand miles way?"

Mycroft offered his brother a small, smug smile. Once he'd got past the inherent eeriness of his wife's identical twin sons (whom he still could not distinguish from each other in any consistent way), he had found to his relief that Oliver and Miles Smallwood were generally sensible, rational young men. A little too keen on rugby for his liking, but that had been their father's influence. If they bore him any ill will, they did it in their own time – and because they were both overseas in the Diplomatic Service, their own time was usually conducted in a different time zone. Of course, it did help that he was in a position to be professionally helpful to them.

"It's a cross I have to bear," he replied. He could see his brother smirking out of the corner of his eye.

Perhaps it was time. Most people wouldn't choose the last embers of a wedding, but really, no time was going to be ideal. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, furrowed his brow, then closed his mouth again. He gave it another attempt.

"I hope you know, Sherlock, that it gives me immense happiness to be here today…"

To Sherlock's credit, he did not try to interject with a snide remark, but instead held his silence with a slightly incredulous look.

"After all, I bear much of the blame for everything that has come before. I realise that my actions - my deceptions, my obfuscations as you may see them - are not of the type that are easily forgiven. But if not your forgiveness, I am asking for your…tolerance."

Now Sherlock was looking at him, _really_ looking at him, to the extent that Mycroft looked away with a flinch. The next thing he knew, Sherlock's hand was tapping the elbow of his suit jacket. When he looked down, his little brother was offering him his unlit cigarette.

"That must have been agonising for you, Mycroft," he said, the slightest quirk of a smile on his lips. "I think Lady Smallwood would permit you another one of these in the circumstances."

Mycroft took the proffered cigarette gratefully, but hesitated before lighting it. Instead, he tucked it into his inside breast pocket; it was a peace-offering, and he was going to treat it as such.

"You have my forgiveness, big brother," Sherlock said. "That phrase 'the past is in the past' is patently stupid – it's always with us, it informs our lives – but it doesn't have to define us. And luckily, Molly seems to like me anyway, despite all that, despite my many and various personality defects. There is plenty of time for us to re-tread the past, and Molly tells me it's something I need to do if I'm ever to fully reconcile myself with my childhood, but I don't intend for it become a stick with which we beat each other."

"It warms my heart to hear it," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock looked at him in mild disbelief.

"Go easy on the free bar, old man," he smirked, clapping him on the back. But Mycroft knew that Sherlock took his sentiment as sincere.

"Marriage must be suiting you, Mycroft," Sherlock added. "You're looking well."

"Well done for forcing that compliment past your lips," he replied. But he had to hold back a smile of his own – things like this mattered to him, even if he wished they didn't.

"Lady Smallwood likes to bake for weekend relaxation," Mycroft continued. "I'm afraid the treadmill has become a daily necessity."

He saw Sherlock raise an eyebrow, and he knew it related to the fact that he chose to refer to his wife by her formal title when in company. It was quite a different matter at home, of course, but nobody else needed to know that.

At that moment, the door to the balcony opened, and Molly stepped out to join them. She was carrying her soft ballet-style shoes in one hand, and her small bouquet of daisies and wildflowers in the other.

"Hello, Mycroft," she said, greeting him softly.

She did look exquisite, almost other-worldly.

"Molly," he replied. He leaned down and placed a kiss on her cheek, noting her surprise and – it seemed – pleasure at this gesture. "Congratulations."

"Thank you. And thank you for coming."

Molly and Sherlock naturally gravitated towards either other, their fingers lacing together. Mycroft saw his brother gently stroking the back of his wife's hand with his thumb, and suspected that Sherlock regularly expressed himself through such gestures.

"You look beautiful," Sherlock told her, leaning in to place a kiss on her lips. "My wife."

Molly laughed shyly - the shyness, Mycroft suspected, was probably down to his presence, and his well-known aversion to public displays of affection. She put a hand to the swell of her stomach, which Mycroft took to mean that the child was being particularly active.

"Recognises Daddy's voice," Molly said with a smile, addressing her husband.

"Is he hungry?" Sherlock said.

"Famished," Molly replied, her face breaking into a broad grin.

Sherlock laughed, wrapping his arm around Molly's shoulders as she slipped her arm around his waist. Seeing his little brother with his pathologist, Mycroft conceded, you'd have to have a hard heart indeed not to believe in perfect symmetry. And his heart was no longer up to that job.

"Now if you'll excuse me, Mycroft," Sherlock said, taking Molly's shoes in his spare hand. "I'm going to take my wife out for chips."

Before he turned and left, Mycroft saw that Sherlock sought his gaze, and their eyes locked for a brief moment. He understood his meaning instinctively; he valued their brotherhood and it was something that he was committed to nurturing as they both moved forward with their lives.

Mycroft stood for a moment more on the balcony, knowing that as soon as he retrieved his phone from his pocket, there would be several national and international incidents requiring his attention. The city lay sprawled in front of him, and Mycroft breathed it in – London was a capricious mistress, cuttingly cruel and limitlessly beautiful. But he believed it had been tipped slightly in the favour of the angels today – it was his job to keep it that way, for the sake of the next generation of his family, but instead of regarding this as a burden, he rather considered it an honour.

 **THE END**


End file.
